


Dishonorable

by musicmillennia



Series: Dragon Riders 'verse [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (kudos to any who got that reference), Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Friendship, Gen, Gore, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Let's dance the dance of brotherly love, Magic, Synesthesia, Telepathic Bond, This got away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The epithet of "Inseparables" did not come from nowhere, but from a long history of looking after one another, riding with one another, and generally just being--well. Inseparable.</p><p>In short: hurt one of them and you hurt them all.<br/>Even shorter: run, mercenaries. Run fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dishonorable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DebbieF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbieF/gifts).



> My biggest apologies to DebbieF for the lateness of this. In truth, I started to write it mere moments after receiving the prompt, but then I thought "hey, what if THIS happened instead?" and that lead on and on until I was so mixed up in different plots that I had to scrap everything and start fresh. I hope this covers what you wanted!
> 
> WARNING: Gratuitous brotherly love ahead. Also gore, because Constance goes a little nuts for a minute. On the bright side, the enemy isn't the Spanish this time!  
> ALSO: I should say this got away from me. I apologize for that.  
> AND: I have synesthesia, so I thought I'd incorporate that in here. With any luck, it'll fit!
> 
> I really, really hope you like this.

The day is as quiet as can be, the early spring morning only interrupted by the clashing of swords and dragons' roars as training progresses. Years of experience compel Captain Tréville not to trust this relative peace. With careful eyes he oversees his garrison from his perch on the garrison's Tower, big enough for two large dragons, wings twitching restlessly as a breeze blows over them.

They are a faction full of mythical beasts and their riders; they do not know the meaning of a peaceful day. Something is going to happen, he can feel it in his bones.

 _Stop that_ , Louis' voice snaps childishly at him,  _it is hardly dawn. I would like to sleep a while longer without your worrying._

Tréville's snout huffs a small bout of smoke.  _My apologies, Your Majesty._

Grumbling, then dormancy once more. Tréville shakes his head lightly, trying in vain to jostle the foreboding gloom so as to not wake Louis again. He is almost thankful for the beating of wings and scent of church incense curling at his senses.

"Do calm down," a voice rumbles above him in Dragonspeak, "others may mistake you for a dam pacing over her brood."

An all-too familiar dragon lands next to the pensive Captain. He is taller than Tréville by a few feet, and not as lean, with deep red scales interrupted only by patches of black on his snout, legs, wings, and the end of his tail. His horns curl, meeting at his snout, accenting the large size of his eyes: off-white, with dark vertical slits for pupils. The likewise white feathers brushed with black on the tips on his tail brush against the knife-point arrow on Tréville's in a more intimate greeting that goes, as always, unspoken between them.

"Cardinal," Tréville says curtly, also in Dragonspeak, the only language dragons can verbally form words with--draconic vocal chords can handle human language as much as human vocal chords can handle roaring.

"Captain. What are your men doing at this hour?"

"Something your men know nothing about: training."

Richelieu scoffs, though in his original form it sounds more like a snort. Tréville could almost smirk at it. "Shall I remind you of the incursion in the Cité District only yesterday? Jussac sent quite a few of your Musketeers to their beds, bleeding and weeping like boys."

"That was an unfair fight, as well as an illegal one. His Majesty was not happy to hear of it."

"And what is unfair in your mind, I wonder? Four Musketeers have been outnumbered before and have, regretfully, won each day. Why should those fools be any different?"

Tréville's eyes narrow on Richelieu, at last turning from the garrison below. "Those men barely deserve being called such. Fairness stems from men of equal ability facing each other. You know perfectly well the four you mention are far beyond the skill of those your Red Guards put to the ground."

Said four men stride into the training yard from the mess hall. The two men on the end are making a show of stretching and bantering with each other and the youngest while the quiet one keeps his arms at his sides and his mouth shut outside of a few one-word responses. Athos is the only one among the others who is openly not a morning person.

"How long until their pup runs into trouble without them by his side, do you think?"

This question, although asked by Richelieu, is softer and pointed. And suddenly Tréville realizes why he is feeling so unsettled, so sure something is coming.

"D'Artagnan has a strong Bond with Constance," he replies, though both he and Richelieu know very well who he is truly reassuring; "as well as surprising skill."

"And yet you watch him as if he is about to be struck down where he stands."

It is an invitation to share his worries, and Tréville takes it. Digging his talons against the stone under them, he quietly snaps, "Because he is barely nineteen years of age and he has already brushed with death more than a dozen times! Not to mention how clear those other three are attached to him. Should anything truly drastic happen..." he allows the object of his observation finish his thought for him.

Richelieu obligingly follows his gaze to Athos' relaxed shoulders as D'Artagnan laughs at something Porthos says to Aramis. The fact that Athos of all people is even hinting at a smile this early in the morning speaks volumes on its own. 

"I suspect all of France is aware how capable your Prime Wing is," the Cardinal replies steadily.

"Exactly," Tréville instantly counters. "A new addition is bound to turn heads, especially the wrong ones."

"Then you know perfectly well that those heads will roll, should what you worry over needlessly occur against all possible odds."

"I know it will."

Richelieu sits back on his haunches, tail curling about him like a cat's. His wings, however, form an intimidating arc, tenting both of them. He sits with such practiced stillness that Tréville could almost mistake him for a painted statue on Notre Dame.

"How do you know?" the Cardinal asks.

Tréville rumbles in his chest. "A feeling."

Instead of a sarcastic retort, Richelieu hums thoughtfully. There are so few in existence that neither he nor Tréville can be absolutely certain, but an Honor Sigil seems to have a sixth sense about people and events. It is almost as if the Captain can predict when someone is going to do something, well, dishonorable.

And now that he knows the source, Tréville cannot help but be sure that someone is going to do something dishonorable to D'Artagnan--stab him in the back, capture him,  _something_. In any case, it will be unpleasant for all involved.

"Perhaps I should put him on palace guard today," he muses aloud, to which Richelieu instantly replies, "Do not be so cautious you stray into cowardly, Jean. They cannot be cosseted like babes; however the day goes, all will be well at its end."

Tréville's mouth curls into a wan smile. "'This too shall pass,' is that it? Everything has an end?" Richelieu inclines his head. "Good, because our acquaintance has gone on too long."

His mate snorts. "I seem to recall  _you_ begging _me_ to accept your proposal." _  
_

"Well, it was either you or a painful death. I was naive enough to think you were the better choice."

They touch their snouts together before Richelieu takes to the air once more. Tréville cannot help but breathe easier in his wake.

(&)

"Oh! There goes the Cardinal," Aramis announces unnecessarily as the black and red dragon's shadow encompasses the humans' training yard.

"And here comes my victory," Porthos says. Before Aramis can ask what he means he is under the larger man's boot, D'Artagnan cackling even as he barely manages to parry Athos' strike.

Aramis rolls his eyes. "Yes, because your coming out victorious in a hand-to-hand match is ever so surprising. Let me up."

"I dunno," Porthos replies, tilting his head as if he is pretending to think about it. "You've been so rude this morning. And not even a 'please'?" he tuts him. "You best learn some manners first."

Aramis glowers at him. "Athos!" he calls, "Get Porthos off of me!"

"Not my problem," Athos says, not even looking over at his wing-mates. D'Artagnan tries not to laugh again, really he does--he fails all the same, and Athos disarms him easily; Aramis knows he will not help as he launches into a critique about his opponent's style and how easily D'Artagnan can be distracted.

Aramis grabs Porthos' ankle and attempts to physically remove it from his chest. It is an exercise in futility, as Porthos only laughs.  _Fine_.

 _Adèle!_ he may or may not whine into his Bond.  _Get Porthos off of me!_

He can  _feel_ her incoming innuendo.  _Poor Aramis. Is having a big, strong man pin you to the ground so terrible?_

_Adèle!_

_Have you tried saying 'please'?_

_Oh for the love of--_ "Please?" Aramis grumbles.

Porthos puts one hand on his hip and cups his ear with the other, leaning towards him. By now they have a small audience. "Sorry," he yells, "What was that?" and laughter erupts from their comrades.

In other words, forget the 'please'.

Aramis' pupils narrow and elongate, the brown of his irises flooding with pink like wine in water. Within moments, a portion of Adèle's strength fills his limbs and sends Porthos on his ass.

_Ha!_

Adèle sighs, but her half warms with fond amusement.  _Well done, little boy. Are you done playing now?_

Porthos rolls into a crouch, and Samara's cerulean blue glow with intent at Aramis.

 _Not by a long shot_.

Unfortunately, just as Aramis stands in tandem with his best friend, his other best friend storms onto the scene with Milady's fearsome burnt orange staring the entire company down.

"Need I remind you gentlemen that you are soldiers of the King," he says, deceptively calm, "and not petty children?"

The other Musketeers flee back to their training. The trio blinks a few times, their eyes fading back to their own.

"You're just mad we stole D'Artagnan's attention," Porthos teases.

Athos huffs, but Aramis adds, "Admit it, Athos. You have a new favorite brother. Soon, Porthos, we shall be forgotten!"

D'Artagnan, as he is wont, makes it worse by walking over and bumping shoulders with Athos. "Am I really your favorite?"

He looks so sincerely hopeful, Porthos nearly embraces him and says that he's  _his_ favorite no matter what. He's not sure, but he could have sworn Athos' eye gives an almost imperceptible twitch, as if he shares the urge to coddle their youngest with him.

"We must work on your footing," Athos says in lieu of answering, turning on his heel, "Come."

D'Artagnan grins and all but skips after him. Porthos and Aramis look at each other, the latter putting a hand over his heart.

The messenger arrives then, a stick of a lad with a wrinkled piece of folded parchment in his grubby hand. "M'sieur D'Artagnan?" he calls, "M'sieur D'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan, like the other three--though Athos looks nothing of the sort--has quite the soft spot for children. He does not hesitate to tamper his grin into a kind fraternal smile and answer the boy's summons. He flips a coin to him in exchange for the letter.

"Who is this from?" he asks.

The boy shrugs a shoulder, "I don' know his name, M'sieur. He just said to give that to you."

D'Artagnan makes a noise of intrigue, then thanks boy, who runs off with a tip of his cap. As the light of dawn is still too dim to read by, he takes the missive to a nearby lantern, his friends following as if magnetized. They read over his shoulder, Porthos directly behind him, Athos on his left, Aramis to his right.

_Le 13 avril 1630_

_Monsieur,_

_I realize that this is both unexpected and strange, so I will explain directly: I am a friend of your mother's, though I do not know if you remember me. It is on her behalf that I have come to Paris. She has recently fallen ill--nothing fatal, as far as Lupiac's physician can tell, but nevertheless she wishes to speak with you. I will be waiting at Pont Neuf at nine o'clock until the twentieth for you._

_Yours, &c,_

_Signor Cavigni._

Aramis speaks first. "An Italian?"

D'Artagnan nods, though he is occupied with  _she has recently fallen ill_. "My mother is Italian," he says absentmindedly, "Signor Cavigni is like a brother to her, despite the distance between them now."

"We can speak to the Captain for you," Porthos offers, "Get you on your way faster."

As if on cue, a presence brushes against their minds, drawing their attention to the Tower. Tréville is staring directly at them, stern gold-yellow eyes considering them and the parchment. They inform him of the situation.

 _I could complete the journey in less than two hours on dragonback,_ D'Artagnan suggests. Constance, while sharing his worry for his mother, is excited by the prospect of flying with him.  _My mother's friend has always wanted to ride a dragon himself._

Tréville ponders this, that uneasy feeling returning. It is only Richelieu's warning about cowardice that stays his ordering the other three to accompany the young man.

 _I expect you to return this evening,_ he says instead, the shallow connection blocking his hesitation from the other four. He sees D'Artagnan nod, and can only hope at least one of them insists on following.

Of course they just stand by and watch him leave instead.

(&)

Captured it is.

Athos and Porthos land on Pont Neuf before the screams have had a chance to fade. Milady and Samara take both sides of the bridge, effectively blocking citizens from the area. Aramis and Adèle, meanwhile, are sent by Athos to search for the culprits. Once some sense of order is restored to the scene, the citizens cover their mouths and stare from their vantage points in overwhelming silence.

Meanwhile, Constance has not stopped screeching. Around and on her scales, evidence of a massacre: blood, bits of flesh and skin, eviscerated bodies of men in a uniform none of them have seen before, the most immediate being one cut into pieces under Constance's talons, bones crunching and organs gushing out with the blood. Athos' stomach roils, but not from the scene before him; he is a soldier and a Rider, he knows what damage a dragon can do. What sends his heart pounding is what, or rather who, is missing. _  
_

Milady starts shouting in Dragonspeak. Athos' mind translates for him, the words an undercurrent to his growing panic: "Constance! What has happened here?"

Constance is hysterical, her great head thrashing from side to side. Athos descends from Milady's back, Porthos following suit, giving both of their dragons leave to lunge for her. She puts up a fight, but something in her still recognizes her wing-mate's; she allows herself to be pinned under them.

"Easy, sister," Samara croons, "We are here for you. Tell us what happened so we may exact justice."

Constance's frantic screeches tone down to the whimpers of a hatchling for her dam. Honestly, Athos does not know which he prefers.

"Where is D'Artagnan?" he asks in the same language, voice quivering just enough for Porthos' neck to crane in his direction.

A bulbous tear streaks down the dragon's face, steaming as it hits the bridge's stone. Scalding water that could easily burn a man's flesh, but Athos is not deterred from stepping forward and repeating the question.

Constance heaves a breath. "Taken," she croaks, "Tried to stop them, but--" another mournful roar pierces the air as the ground bottoms out from under Athos' feet.

Numbly, he turns to Porthos. "Any civilian casualties?"

Porthos shakes his head. He grips Athos' shoulder, the other welcoming the steady weight. "We'll find him."

Athos' hands clench into fists in an effort to stop shaking. "I know."

(&)

Aramis and Adèle meet them at the dragons' portion of the garrison, where Constance has curled between her wing-sisters in her clearing. Regretfully they did not find anything but a bloody strip of uniform identical to the corpses being cleared by other Musketeers.

Athos paces back and forth, turning the cloth over in his hands. There is a symbol on it, but it is incomplete. Once Adèle replaces her on Constance's side, Samara offers to consult her hoard of books. Athos hands it over, watches her fly to her clearing until she disappears behind the tall fence.

Porthos lightly punches the inside of his hat, thinking. "Whoever did this knew what they were doin'," he says, "No one takes a Rider right under his dragon's nose and gets away with it."

Aramis nods, "My guess is they used the catacombs. We found that outside of an entrance. We can show you..." giving Constance a subtle glance, "once you are ready."

Porthos' eyes unfocus for a moment. "Samara needs my small human thumbs," he says, "Anyone wanna help?"

The trio makes it to the entrance of the clearing before Constance screams louder than ever before. It takes Milady and Samara holding her down from clawing at her own face.

"I can't--" she shrieks, eyes wide with horror, "I can't--!"

(&)

Each Rider feels their Bond differently. During his very first mission with them as a recruit, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis shared their perceptions.

For Aramis, Adèle's presence is a constantly fluctuating temperature. When she is happy, the Bond is pleasantly warm; when she is sad, the Bond is cold, etc. Battle felt like a frigid knife pulsing in his head, keeping him focused.

Porthos and Samara do not communicate with words unless strictly necessary, which is next to never. Theirs is a purely empathetic Bond, emotions responding to emotions. In the early days of it, he recalls just staring at some people, confused because they replied to his open expressions with words. Incidentally, it was this constant staring that sparked his and Athos' friendship.

As for Athos, he described his Bond to Milady as something akin to tug of war. She yanked, he shoved; she spoke with force, he replied with just as much. Yes, he felt her emotions and she his, but the action she put behind her words when she spoke to him was the vital part of their Bond.

Now that D'Artagnan has a dragon connected to his mind, he is drenched in color and texture; Constance's presence at its core is a soft, creamy pearl silver with a hint of red. Her emotions each have a color, her words have physical weight. Just the other day she had been relating a story about her older brothers' antics; the story had a background of yellow and green humor, while her words were ticklish and airy. She told him he was burgundy, with more brown than red, warm to the touch.

Waking up without those is like being ripped apart and being sewn back together without an important piece. For a long stretch of minutes, all D'Artagnan can do is control his breathing while he copes with the loss.

Constance is gone. She's just--she is  _gone_. He can no longer feel her words or see her colors.

Did that mean--was she--?

A pitiful moan escapes D'Artagnan's lips; he pitches forward, clutching his head as his mind desperately searches for its other half. When there is not even a wisp of silver, that moan quickly turns into a shout of despair. It does not last long; something is shoved into his mouth.

"Be quiet!" a voice hisses, "We left your dragon alive, you're just blocked!  _Hey_! Look!"

Something holds his wrists up to his eyes. Shackles bind them, only these radiate powerful dark magic and in consequence bear a smattering of complicated symbols.

"We can't let you call for help, now could we?" his captor says, "Not until you answer some questions."

(&)

The world blurs for a moment when Constance yells that she cannot feel D'Artagnan anymore. Athos' ears ring from her voice; he knows he is clutching something and that that something is clutching back, but he could not tell who or what it is until his vision clears.

Aramis and Porthos' faces have drained of color. They hold his sleeves in a vice grip as he holds theirs. He does not need to ask to know their minds have halted around the same words:  _D'Artagnan is dead._

No.

...No?

 _No_.

"Athos...?" Aramis whispers, seeing his friend's face transform from naked shock and grief into determination.

"He is of the King's Prime Wing," Athos rasps, fighting to regain control over his voice, "Why would they just--" _kill him_ is too difficult to say, so he does not. "Something is not right."

"Athos," Porthos' voice is already rough with tears, "We understand, y'know we do, but--"

Athos drops his hands and strides to Milady. She pushes lightly at him, advising he stay at the garrison just this once and let others find D'Artagnan. In the end, though, she knows as well as he does that it is a lost cause.

If D'Artagnan truly is dead, Athos is not going to leave him to rot until a search party can find him. He has already failed one brother; he will not do so again.

He swings himself up on Milady's saddle and takes a spike in hand. "Are you coming or not?"

The Captain agrees to watch over Constance; undoubtedly Richelieu will come soon to ease his grief. Milady, Samara, and Adèle push off the ground.

Samara, having not had nearly enough time to find anything that matched the cloth's symbol, has nothing to tell them. Athos hears this with a soldier's cold detachment; symbol or no symbol, they will find D'Artagnan's body regardless.

Something howls in his chest; he smothers it.  _Later_.

Milady responds by clutching the pieces of him together.  _Later_ , she agrees.

(&)

His captor offers an unfair _quid por quo_ once he recovers enough of his psyche to speak in broken sentences. Through it, however, D'Artagnan learns the man's name is Aubert, Cavigni has been dead two months, and the spell on his shackles enforces a blockade between a Rider-Dragon Bond.

In return, Aubert knows the real names of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. To others this information would be next to useless, but for his employer--the powerful sorcerer who enchanted D'Artagnan's shackles--names are everything. D'Artagnan cannot think beyond the present, so Aubert's questions do not strike him as suspicious.

Constance. Gone.

"My turn again," Aubert smirks. The flash of red swallows his words.

D'Artagnan starts violently, breath halting in his throat. That is not Constance's red; it is too...not dark, but deep. A flicker, yes, but enough for him to chase. If he could just--

Aubert's fist forces him back to the present. "You should listen to me when I am talking to you," he says with false kindness.

D'Artagnan says, "Red."

"Red?" the man's face curls in confusion. It clears seconds later into a malicious smirk. "You want red? I can give you red."

Just before his kick lands, D'Artagnan immerses himself in Red. Familiar. Steady. Intense. He  _knows_ this Red, knows it better than his own Burgundy.

_Athos._

_...D'Artagnan?_

 

The dank tunnel's stench is sucked into the open air above Paris. He gasps at the sensation with lungs that are not his, sending him into a coughing fit. He braces himself against the black scales of Milady, who shoves her worry at him, then recoils as she finds that her Rider suddenly has an addition clinging by the skin of its teeth.

"Athos?" Porthos shouts over the wind, "What is it?"

D'Artagnan feels his mouth move without his volition. "He is alive!"

That is not his voice, but Athos'. This is...Athos' body? But how--

_It blocks the link between a Rider and his dragon._

_A Rider and his dragon._

Magic always has a loophole.

_Anne, can you sense him?_

_I--yes, Athos. You are connected to him by a thread, but connected all the same._

_Is this possible?_

D'Artagnan feels the pull and shove between them as they speak, a weight being thrown in different directions, and he can finally understand Athos' description.  _Help_ , he says to them, trying to push the word as they do.

"What do you mean, alive?!" Aramis is yelling, "The Bond between him and Constance has severed!" his voice is cracking. He is grieving.

 _Not dead_ , he tells Athos.  _Constance...not dead?_

Athos' body sags with relief palpable enough to nearly overwhelm D'Artagnan's thin link.  _She is very much alive, though we thought..._ the image of Musketeers being forced to put Constance out of her misery makes D'Artagnan choke.  _I apologize,_ Athos says, quickly hiding it away.  _Where are you?_

 _Shackled. Catacombs._ Constance. Alive. Good.

_How did you manage this?_

_Don't know. Followed Red._

Athos' light orange and gray confusion reverberates back to him. "Colors," he murmurs aloud.

"Athos!" Porthos bellows, "Now is not the time to lose your head!"

"Just follow us!" Athos orders.  _D'Artagnan, stay with me. We will find you._

Strong mental hands grip the thread between them as Milady beats Adèle to the catacombs' entrance. Athos is off and running before she has time to shift and follow him.

"He is faint," he calls over his shoulder to Aramis and Porthos, "but I can feel him."

"You  _what_?"

"Tha's not possible!"

 _Do you think I do not know that?_ he snaps, causing D'Artagnan to bark a shocked laugh. Athos is different in his head, more vocal and open. To be expected of course, but strange all the same.

Unfortunately he can offer nothing in terms of directions, but Athos' feet are sure as they sprint through the tunnels. He can feel traces of his wing-mate like a dim beacon in the distance; all he need do is reach it.

It reminds D'Artagnan of Unbound, when he frantically ran to Constance in the middle of a mountain full of feral dragons. Athos is inclined to agree, though he hopes for Aubert's sake that D'Artagnan is left as unscathed as then. If that wretch has harmed his best friend--

_Best friend?_

_Quiet._

(&)

Aubert is dragging D'Artagnan's motionless body in the opposite direction, but his impeded steps make him an easy catch for three angered dragons, even in human form.

As soon as Athos' lips touch D'Artagnan's forehead, the thread snaps and D'Artagnan plummets back into his own body. And what do you know, Aubert has bruised his ribs, blackened his eye, split his lip, and when he had failed to respond to any of this, broken his fingers and gave him quite the concussion.

But none of that matters because D'Artagnan is Athos' best friend and Constance is alive.

Aramis shakes his head in bewilderment after his examination. "You," he pants, "are the luckiest bastard on this Earth."

"Amen," Porthos says. Then, hearing Aubert's pained shouts, "Ladies, please! We need him alive!"

" _Just_ alive?" Milady smirks.

(&)

Thus, Captain Tréville is brought an eyeless, blubbering, walking bruise paralyzed from the waist down.

Athos gestures to him. "This is D'Artagnan's captor," he says helpfully.

Richelieu crosses himself with his talons. "Well done," he murmurs.

"Yes," Tréville clears his throat, "Well done. Ah, best get it--him out of my sight before the King tries to take a look. You three," indicating the dragons, "have my permission to take over his interrogation. Find out who he is working for and why his employer wanted D'Artagnan."

Samara smiles, eyes gleaming with something Tréville would rather not see in his subordinates. "Yes, Captain."

"Oh dear," Richelieu says. His mate silently agrees.

"Where is D'Artagnan?" Tréville asks.

"With Aramis," Porthos replies, "'e got a bit banged up, needs some tending to."

Both dragons reared their heads in surprise. "He is alive?" Tréville says, incredulous. Constance raises her head a little at the words.

Athos launches into an account of the incident as best he can describe it. His Captain and the Cardinal are amazed at D'Artagnan's forming a link with one of his wing-mates; humans are incapable of telepathic communication on their own. Which brings the question of how it happened and where D'Artagnan learned such a technique. Athos shares his doubts about D'Artagnan knowing anything about a technique.

"That is impossible," Richelieu immediately dismisses.

"Nevertheless, he told me he did not know," Athos says, "And I believe I could tell whether or not he was telling the truth through a mental connection."

Tréville suppressed a reptilian smile, trying and failing not to enjoy the look of annoyance on Richelieu's face. He steers the pair away from a  _tête-a-tête_ by marveling over the subject itself. "A human forming a dragon's bond with his wing-mate. Yet it was one-sided? You could not see what he saw?"

"No."

Porthos steps in then. "His shackles, Athos."

Tréville snaps to attention. "Shackles?"

"'e's got powerful magic on his shackles. We can't get 'em off, and they're blockin' his Bond to Constance."

Richelieu sighs, "It seems I have to do everything around here."

(&)

Aramis meets Athos and Porthos in his garrison quarters for some much needed wine about a minute after Constance clambered into the infirmary in her human form.

"How is he?" Porthos asks, pouring him a tall cup. Aramis takes it gratefully.

"She keeps calling him 'mine' and he won't stop talking about how he is Athos' best friend."

Athos is suddenly the target of twin smirks. He says nothing, taking another large gulp of wine.

Porthos pats his shoulder, "Athos, it's alright."

"Yes, perfectly alright," Aramis agrees, "having friends is the first step to a happy life."

"A pup counts. Doesn't it?"

"Oh, of course. They make excellent best friends. We kept telling you this."

It quickly becomes apparent that they are never going to let go of the fact that Athos has finally--albeit accidentally--admitted that he acknowledges his regard for D'Artagnan. If he had not been so relieved at D'Artagnan's return, he might have considered glaring at them.

Milady chortles.  _Do you honestly think that would stop them?_

No. And if he was honest with himself, Athos would admit that he did not want them to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. DebbieF, I hope you liked it! :)


End file.
